


Polish

by ahimsabitches



Category: American Gods (TV)
Genre: B O O T, Other, technical boy got what he deserved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 16:19:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16747387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ahimsabitches/pseuds/ahimsabitches
Summary: Done for a prompt on Tumblr: Czernabog breaks in a new pair of boots.





	Polish

The field was the same color as the sky; the withered stumps of corn were too sharp even for the crows to land on.

So they landed on Czernobog’s narrow heaving shoulders, and flapped their wings awkwardly when he moved. Their wings swirled the thick smoke from his cigarette into a silvery cowl. He hauled back and kicked the thing on the ground again. Its thin legs jerked; it moaned weakly. He peeled his lips back from his long brown teeth and blew a scornful cloud of smoke down at the curled thing at his feet.

“You do not die until my boots taste your blood, eh?”

“I thought you were all about skill with a sledgehammer, my friend.”

A deep red flash of anger zipped past Czernobog’s eyes. His thin, jerky tongue poked out from between his teeth. He did not turn toward the voice behind him. “New boots. Need to break them in,” he grunted, and, to prove his point, he delivered another savage, mulish kick to the curled-up thing’s belly.

Wednesday strolled up beside him and gazed down at the man in the scuffed-up suit that was once white. Cocked his head curiously. “Mm. Sure he’s no cow, but…”

Even through leather and rubber and a steel plate, he felt one of the man’s ribs crack on his next kick, and chuckled rustily.

“Call me old-fashioned, Czernobog, but wouldn’t a tin of shoe polish turn the trick?”

Czernobog turned the full strength of his hateful glare onto Wednesday and blew a cloud of smoke at him. Startled, the crows flew off his shoulders. He leaned down, and, with a strength that belied his skinny, bent frame, hauled the young man with the fallen golden curls to his feet. Both eyes were purpled and swollen shut, so the man could not see Czernobog back two steps, then swing his heavy booted foot up and land the outer edge of the tire-treaded sole right on his Adam’s apple. The man dropped like a slaughtered hog, choking and twitching. Blood began to froth out of the young man’s mouth. Czernobog’s tired old heart leapt at the sight; his rolling laughter flowed out of his mouth on clouds of smoke. He mashed the steel-capped toe of his left boot into the young man’s mouth. “Polish it, boy,” he commanded.

The young man whimpered and gurgled some words, but they exited his bloody mouth in an incomprehensible mush.

“I say  _polish_ , or I’ll nail your balls to the ground with my bolt gun.”

“Don’t be  _rude_ , Czernobog.”

The young man began to shake, but he also began to lick the dusty toe of Czernobog’s boot with a bloody, shivery tongue.

“Is not rude.  _Rude_  is coming into my home thinking he can kill me without a single  _hello how are you_. Not even a single sporting game of checkers!  _This_ little scrap of nothing! And now,” Czernobog gestured to the young man in the once-crisp white shirt and trousers, licking new-god blood onto his new boots, “he knows. Right,  _little god_?”

While the young man with the once-golden hair that was now muddy with dirt and blood licked one boot, Czernobog kicked the man in his guts with the other once again. He coughed and gagged. Dark red blood jetted out of his mouth onto Czernobog’s boot. He grinned his dark, smoke-filled grin at Wednesday.

“Is good.”


End file.
